


#eternalMAM (drabble collection)

by ZainClaw



Series: Move A Mountain [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drabble Collection, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Smut, biker!Derek, biker!stiles, not a proper sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 09:45:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16851736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZainClaw/pseuds/ZainClaw
Summary: My collection of drabbles set in the MAM universe, set after the end ofMove A Mountain.





	1. polaroids

**Author's Note:**

> Saving these from my Tumblr in face of the NSFW purge over there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this one is set before the Move A Mountain epilogue)

 

 

Stiles used to think Laura was exaggerating when calling Derek a dinosaur, but that was before she asked him to buy a new camera and he came back with a Polaroid. 

Derek doesn’t see the problem. It does the job— _it takes pictures_ —and you only need to wait a couple of seconds before getting the pictures printed. Laura complains about not being able to edit them or get copies or  _the_   _quality_ , but Derek just shrugs. He doesn’t approve of Erica teaching his sister how to “cheat” using Photoshop and insists that it’s much more practical to just stick the pictures on the board in the office right away.

To support his boyfriend Stiles snaps a picture of Derek bending over one of the bikes in the garage the same afternoon and puts it up next to Derek’s schedule. It stays up.

 

 

Summer is drawing to a close. Stiles has started school, losing several hours during the day that he’d otherwise spend with the gang. He’s not upset about it—he actually likes college—but it’s still a bit sad to lose the freedom he’s had this summer. Even if Derek keeps reminding him that he’s not a bird locked up in a cage and is still as wild and free as a lion, Stiles can’t fully agree.

Which is why Derek decides that they’re going on a trip over the weekend, just the two of them.

They’ve been on daytrips since Stiles moved here, but always made it back home for the night. Leaving New York when knowing he’s gotta be back for his classes on Monday feels a little stressful, but at the same time he can’t wait to get away again, even for just a few days. There’s no way in hell he’s turning that down.

Yoda is barely ever left alone these days. During the days when Stiles is in school the gang take turns in walking him during their lunch hour. Sometimes Erica picks him up when she’s got a day off or works at home. Derek even brings him to the garage some days when his schedule isn’t as packed and takes him on long runs. Even though he’s no doubt still Stiles’ baby it feels like that whole gang has adopted him, so going away for the weekend is not a problem.

“You should bring your camera,” Laura says, possibly joking, when they’re packing back at the apartment. Stiles smiles to himself where he’s shoving a set of clothes into his bag in the bedroom. He can’t see Derek’s face since the siblings are in the other room, but he can imagine the bitch face. “You should start taking more pictures when you’re out. Maybe you’ll come across something beautiful.”

“Maybe I will,” Derek simply returns, and that’s the end of it.

They make it a little past 150 miles outside New York before they have to stop for gas. Stiles pats Derek’s stomach when he spots a gas station by the side of the road and Derek nods and keeps to the right before pulling up. He parks the Harley next to one of the pumps, Stiles hopping off before he’s even shut down the engine.

It’s hot, even after hours in the constant wind, and Stile shrugs out of his jacket with a sigh. He hangs it on the back of the bike while Derek rids himself of his helmet and jacket, too. As always his hair is all tousled and Stiles can’t help but to reach up and ruffle it. Derek huffs at him, pushing his arm away.

“I’ll go,” Stiles says just as Derek makes a move to head inside to prepay for the gas—because he’s from the stone age and does  _not_  think it’s easier to just use his card. “I need to take a leak anyway.”

“Alright,” Derek says, handing him his wallet. “Get us two Pepsis while you’re in there.”

Stiles smiles and nods, backing towards the door.

“I have money too, you know. You do the gas, I do the drinks.”

“It’s just two Pepsis,” Derek insists.

“Exactly,” Stiles agrees with a grin, turning around and heading inside.

He pays gas and gives Derek a wave through the window before heading to the restroom. There’s three people standing in line when he comes back out, so he grabs two Pepsis and waits his turn. It’s chilly in here thanks to the air-conditioning, and the bottles are nicely cold in his hands, but he can still feel the shirt sticking to his back.

Stiles catches a guy looking his way from the other side of the shelves, but he hurriedly darts his eyes elsewhere. Stiles ducks his head in return with a soft chuckle. It’s funny, because most of the time Stiles can’t tell if it’s  _him_  or the fact that he’s a biker that people are impressed by. It’s amusing either way, even though Derek has proved to be quite possessive whenever catching someone watching Stiles just a second too long. Not that he’s got anything to worry about.

Another car has pulled up to one of the pumps when Stiles comes back outside. It’s the first one they’ve seen in a while. The sun is starting to set, and Stiles absently wonders where they’re gonna spend the night as he trudges back to the Harley, eyes on the colorful sky.

“Hey,” Derek says.

Stiles is just about to raise an eyebrow and say hi back when he spots the camera in Derek’s hands one second before it says  _click_. Instead he snorts, feeling his face heat up as he scratches his neck. “What are you doing?”

Derek is smiling as he lowers the camera, taking the printed photo in his hands and waves it a little in the air. You don’t have to do that with new Polaroid cameras—the ink won’t get smudged while the picture processes—but of course Derek will do it anyway.

“Well,” he sighs. “Laura did tell me to take pictures if I found something beautiful.”

If possible, Stiles blushes even harder, but can’t stop himself from grinning.

“You’re the biggest sap I’ve ever met, you know that?” He asks, handing him one of the bottles.

Derek shrugs as he cracks one open. “No one will believe you.”

“It’s not like I need to inform them,” Stiles points out. “You’re not as subtle as you think you are.”

A small smile is playing on Derek’s lips as he brings the bottle up for a sip, and it makes Stiles’ heart flutter with affection. Because Derek doesn’t care who’s looking when he turns from big bad wolf to a playful kitten. He never did, and it’s probably one of the things that made Stiles fall so hard in love with him from the start.

They down their soft drinks in silence, cooling down before it’s time to put on their leather jackets and keep driving. Derek finishes his first, putting it down on the concrete and reaches for the Polaroid again. Stiles makes a disapproving noise, reaching up to run a hand through his hair in an attempt to hide his face.

“Come on,” Derek says gently. “Let me take your picture. The light is perfect.”

Stiles sighs, moving his hand to rub the back of his head instead when Derek holds up the camera. The light is perfect, but Stiles has to squint as the sun is right above Derek’s shoulder. He manages a shy smile just as the camera clicks, hoping the warm light covers up his flush. Derek smiles in triumph, takes the print and holds it between two fingers.

“One more.”

“You’re aware that every print costs, right?” Stiles tries to reason. “You can’t just snap away like with a digital one—which is hella practical, by the way.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I bought a lot of film.”

“Of course you did,” Stiles mutters.

“Come on,” Derek begs. “I don’t have a single picture of you.”

“Because I don’t  _like_  being on picture,” Stiles argues, scoffing.

“Stiles,” Derek says, making him look up again. “Please. You look so good right now.”

There’s tightness in his throat when Stiles swallows, and he’s not sure why it’s there, but he knows he wants it to go away. He  _wants_  to believe Derek, but he’s just not there yet. Maybe one day he hopes to look in the mirror and see what Derek sees, but that’s not today.

Today, however, he lets out a soft sigh and drops both hands to his sides, looking into the camera with a small smile. He’s still squinting against the sun, but patiently waits for Derek to finally press the button and the camera clicks.

Derek takes the newly printed picture with a smile and puts all three of them in one of his back pockets. He strides up to Stiles, quickly closing the distance between them and kisses him hard on the mouth without putting his hands on him. Stiles hums against Derek’s lips, still cool from the cool drink. He can smell leather, sweat, sun and gas, and it probably shouldn’t give him nostalgia but it  _does_. If someone would ask him what scents he associated with summer, those would be it.

“Let’s get out of here,” Derek murmurs when he steps back, eyes sparkling.

Stiles finishes his Pepsi with a silly grin on his face.

 

 

The next morning it’s Stiles who gets his hands on the camera.

As always when neither of them have to get up for work or school, he wakes up before Derek. He doesn’t have trouble sleeping anymore, and everyone knows it’s all thanks to Derek. When he came back home after two weeks on the road earlier this summer, his dad had been worried about the fact that he slept past 8 am. Stiles had been surprised too; he didn’t think he’d be able to sleep without Derek again. Turns out a lot of the changes he made while on the road with Derek and the gang were permanent.

Derek’s lying sprawled out on his stomach in the middle of the motel bed, sheets kicked down around his ankles. Stiles is plastered against his side, using one of Derek’s arms for pillow. He doesn’t remember how they ended up in this position, but the sun is up outside the window and it’s so hot that he has to move away from Derek’s warm body.

He shifts into a seating position, lazily rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with a yawn. The room is lit up despite the blinds being pulled down, covering the bed in stripes of sunlight. Stiles studies them curiously, liking the way they wrap around the muscles of Derek’s back. He tilts his head and admires it for a moment before diving for the saddle bag on the floor to fish up the Polaroid camera.

Stiles stands on his knees in bed next to Derek’s still sleeping figure, snapping a picture of the triskelion trapped behind bars of light. The sound from the camera isn’t very loud, but Derek stirs as the picture prints. Stiles puts it away on the bedside table and shuffles closer for another one. He slides his hand up Derek’s naked back, thumb tracing the ink between his shoulder blades. When snapping a second picture Derek doesn’t stir, and Stiles knows it’s because he’s awake.

“What'cha doin’,” Derek mumbles into the pillow.

“You’re the one who said good light was an acceptable excuse,” Stiles responds.

A chuckle surges through Derek’s body, vibrating beneath Stiles’ fingers. It makes blood rush to the lower regions of Stiles’ body, but he doesn’t pay attention to it. He continues to slide his hand lower on Derek’s back again, following his spine. Derek’s skin is hot and damp, and eventually Stiles catches the small movement of Derek’s hips as he rocks against the mattress.  _All hail morning wood_.

Licking his lips hastily, Stiles removes his hand and pushes one knee under Derek, making him roll over to his stomach. He goes willingly, hands immediately landing on Stiles’ thighs as he straddles him. They both gasp at their naked bodies pressing together, the air in the room suddenly filled with tension needing to be released.

Derek’s pupils are blown when Stiles holds up the camera, wanting to capture the way Derek looks fresh in the morning. His hair is a mess, lips parted, and his dark eyes are staring right at Stiles through the lens and it makes something tighten inside Stiles. Experimentally he rolls his hips once, and Derek groans softly, hands tightening their hold on Stiles’ thighs. He takes the picture, but he’s got no clue how it turns out because he puts the camera down before it’s printed.

“You bastard,” Derek sighs fondly. “You realize you can’t show that to anyone, right?”

Stiles grins, leaning down over him to steal a long morning kiss. He does realize.

 

 

Being back on the road feels a little like traveling back in time. Even if it’s just for a few days, the habits of spending the days back on a motorcycle and the nights in cheap motel rooms kick back in easily. It feels right somehow; like that’s how things are supposed to be. And considering that’s how they met—neither of them having seen the other’s home before falling in love—maybe it’s not that strange.

They have breakfast at a diner, which according to Derek is coffee and eggs and according to Stiles is coffee and curly fries. Because why not? If the point of this trip is for him to feel free then no one can stop him from starting his day with junk food. The only problem is him being the messy eater that he is and ends up with ketchup everywhere.

“You got another napkin?” He asks innocently, forearms on the edge of the table and hands spread not to touch anything with his sticky fingers.

Derek huffs, shaking his head as he doesn’t reach for one of his untouched napkins but instead grabs Stiles’ wrist and brings his hand up to his mouth to lick the ketchup from his thumb. Stiles chuckles in surprise, and Derek’s got a pleased smirk on his lips when he gives Stiles back his hand. He throws two napkins at him before pulling out the camera and snapping a picture of the mess on the table, Stiles’ hands visible in the upper corner.

 

 

Saturday night they’re at a bonfire down by the beach close to the B&B where they’re staying. They’ve shed the leather jackets and changed into comfortable shorts and thin shirts. Even with the sun gone and the wind coming in from the sea it’s warm. There’s a lot of people, most of them loud and happy as they dance around the fire to some distant music.

It’s the last night before heading back home, but it’s nothing like last time. Because this time coming home means still being with Derek, waking up next to him every morning and attacking him with kisses every afternoon. And still: it’s sad that it can’t be like this forever.

As if he’d been reading his thoughts Derek leans forward to kiss his temple.

“You know we can go anytime you want, right?” He murmurs into his hair. “Whenever you want. We can just take off again.”

Stiles hums happily, the butterflies stirring in his belly. He tilts his head to the side, nuzzling into Derek’s embrace. He’s got sand in his shoes and possibly his underwear but he’s so comfortable leaning back against Derek’s chest that he doesn’t even care.

“Okay.”

 

 

It’s not till weeks later that he finds the Polaroid pictures.

They’re having a barbecue party at the shop with their regulars and friends. Stiles has never seen Derek mingle with so many people before, and at first he finds it odd, before realizing that this is his people. These are his friends in New York. Stiles recognizes most of them from hanging around the shop, but Laura is still persistent to introduce him to everyone as Derek’s boyfriend. It’s a lot of attention, but he’s enjoying himself.

Yoda is enjoying himself too. He’s allowed to walk without the leash in the fenced garden and is spoiled with cooked meat from various people. Eventually he seeks out Stiles and demands belly rubs, and his daddy sits down in the grass to snuggle without hesitation.

Laura interrupts their play fight to ask him go get some more beer from the fridge, and Stiles gives the husky one last pat before heading for the office.

It’s not a big office; it’s just a small room with a desk where Laura keeps the shop’s books and a mini fridge where they store cold drinks. The board on the wall is mostly for schedules and important post-in notes, but is lately also cluttered with polaroids.

Stiles’ eyes just sweeps past it at first before his brain registers that there’s more pictures there than last time he checked, and he stops in his tracks to go back and take a closer look.

Most of them are the same. There’s the picture of Yoda sleeping on Boyd and Erica’s couch after them babysitting him one afternoon. There’s Aiden and Isaac who just wanted to try out the camera after a family lunch. There’s Derek in the garage, shirt damp with sweat from working before Stiles showed up and snapped the picture  _for reasons_.

But then there’s two photos from their weekend trip: the ones of Stiles at the gas station. Derek has put them more of less in the center of the board, as if to show them off, and Stiles feels his chest go hot at the thought. It’s not just  _one_  picture of him squinting at the sun: it’s  _two_. As if one wouldn’t be enough.

He jumps at the door opening, Derek appearing with a bottle in his hand.

“There you are,” he smiles. “You need help with the beer?”

Stiles doesn’t answer him, just walks right up into Derek’s space and kisses him. Derek makes a noise of surprise and steadies his balance before placing his free hand on the small of Stiles’ back to be able to return it. Neither of them say anything for as long as the kiss lasts, breathing softly through the noses and leaning into each other. It’s heady in a way, and when Stiles eventually tilts his head back to look him in the eye, Derek tries to chase after him.

“What was that for?” He wonders, eyes flickering between Stiles’ eyes and mouth.

Still not answering, Stiles smiles secretly and digs into Derek’s pocket for his phone. Derek lets him, watching him with a thoughtful expression. His breath smells of beer but Stiles likes it, almost leaning in to kiss him again before stepping back and handing Derek his phone.

“Take a picture,” he urges.

Derek doesn’t move at first, just looks at him curiously. When Stiles doesn’t budge, he puts the beer bottle aside and holds up his phone. Stiles smiles effortlessly into the camera, waiting for the capturing sound before stepping closer again as Derek lowers his hands.

“Put it as your lock screen,” he says. “Now you can look at me whenever you want.”

Derek looks at him in silence for another moment before his eyes dart to the board behind Stiles, and the realization is clear in his eyes. With a warm smile growing on his lips, he puts his phone back in his pocket and reaches up to cup Stiles’ face in his hands.

“They were never for me,” he whispers. “They were for you.” Stiles can feel his heart burst as Derek strokes his cheek with his thumb. “I’m not the one who needs to be reminded how gorgeous you are.”

 


	2. dirt bikes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this one is set before the Move A Mountain epilogue)

 

 

Stiles used to think nothing could feel as free as sitting back on Derek’s Harley at high speed, but that’s before the gang takes him out riding dirt bikes for the first time.

They load up the van and drive miles outside the city, passing through the hills where Stiles remembers shooting the montage back at the shop. He’s been on the outskirts of New York many times since he arrived, because Derek prefers the open road rather than riding down the crowded streets, but he’s never seen the map of dirt roads Boyd steers the van onto. Ethan laughs at him excitedly hurrying outside once they’ve come to a stop, and Laura kindly shoves him into the closest ditch.

“Ready to get dirty?” Erica sneers, gathering her hair in a ponytail.

Stiles smiles widely, looking over to where Derek is unloading the bikes. “Always.”

Derek must’ve heard him because he glances over his shoulder and cocks an eyebrow his way, but the tug at the corner of his mouth gives his amusement away.

It’s  _insane_. There are no rules, no streetlights, no people, no speed limit. Ethan is absolutely euphoric, challenging each and every one of them to race 'round the track. His brother is the only one caring enough about his pride to decline, but the others seem perfectly happy getting their asses kicked. Laura is a close call, which is a fun surprise.

Naturally, Stiles can’t turn down a challenge.

He’s sat on Derek’s Harley and several of the bikes in the shop, but he’s never actually  _driven_  a motorcycle before. Isaac keeps telling him to get a license, and while Stiles is pretty sure that’ll happen sometime in the future, it’s nice that he doesn’t need one for this. Dirt bikes aren’t street legal, so he’d never be able to drive one of them anywhere but out here anyway.

“Don’t break anything,” Derek tells him when handing over the helmet.

“Can’t promise anything,” Stiles admits. “I’ve heard newbies are quite good at crashing their bikes.”

“I meant  _you_ ,” Derek returns firmly. “Don’t go breaking bones.”

Stiles grins as he puts the helmet on. “I’ll be careful.”

Derek sighs softly and bumps him on the head before stepping back, not even the slightest fooled.

In his defense: Ethan’s need for speed is contagious. At least that’s what Stiles keeps telling himself. He never craved going faster than what his Jeep was capable of back in Beacon Hills, but that was before he fell in love with a biker and this life.

Boyd manages to convince him to go for a spin on his own before diving head first into racing, and it’s probably a good idea because it takes a while getting used to. He doesn’t lose control of the bike and only falls over once before he gets the hang of it. The speed is thrilling, and he’s smiling into his helmet the entire time, excitement and adrenaline rushing through him at every turn.

Ethan takes it easy on him; Stiles can see it in his eyes as they line up. Part of him wants to tell him not to, but the other part with more reason knows it’s a good thing the gang knows him as well as they do. They know he’ll try to keep up no matter how crazy the challenge. He tells himself he’ll convince Derek to come out here often and in time he’ll become real competition.

“Derek’s gonna blame me if you do anything reckless, you know that right?”

“I know,” Stiles smiles. “I’m pretty sure I was born reckless though.”

“And he loves you for it,” Ethan scoffs. “But he likes having someone else to blame.”

“If I fall on my ass in a minute, that’s on me,” Stiles assures him. “I’ll keep his wrath away from you.”

Ethan chuckles and shifts in his seat, seeming satisfied with that.

Surprisingly: he doesn’t fall on his ass. He manages to keep the bike steady and stay on Ethan’s tail through the entire race, even if the guy could easily bury him in a dust cloud if he wanted to. Stiles doesn’t even care. It’s fast, dirt flying from their spinning wheels at every wide turn, and Stiles is pretty sure his heart is racing along with the rumbling engine beneath him. He’s unable to hold back a pleased scream when both bikes speed up towards the end, and he can see the rest of the gang on the sideline laughing; not  _at_  him but  _with_  him, and he loves them for it.

His body is humming when he finally steps off the bike, and he can’t stop smiling.

“That was the coolest thing ever,” he says truthfully, practically bouncing on his feet. “We gotta do this again when Scott comes up next month.”

Isaac’s face lights up as it always does whenever Scott is mentioned, and he agrees with a nod. Erica pokes him in the side with a teasing grin and he hurries to lay claim on one of the bikes.

Derek steps up to run a hand through Stiles’ tousled hair, flat and sweaty from being trapped under the helmet in the heat. He’s got that soft and adoring look on his face that most people think doesn’t belong on a guy like Derek, but it’s probably Stiles’ favorite thing about him; the big bad wolf is nothing but a purring kitten on the inside.

“Your boy is a wild one,” Laura says with a wink as she walks by to take the second bike.

“He is,” Derek agrees, smiling as he cups Stiles’ cheek.

Stiles lifts an eyebrow before Boyd starts singing  _Born To Be Wild_  and they all fall into laughter.

They stay for another hour, taking turns on the bikes and leaving fresh tracks all over the place. Aside from racing, Isaac and Derek do some crazy stunts, jumping between the hills and doing things Stiles has only seen been done on a skateboard before. He begins to understand how Derek must feel whenever he jumps the gun when watching him fly through the air, worrying he’ll land wrong. Somehow he and Isaac both manage to land on both wheels every time, and Stiles considers to start calling the gang a pack of cats rather than wolves.

“That went well, didn’t it?” Laura thinks out loud when they’re about to head back. “No broken toes or anything.”

Stiles assumes she’s talking about him until he catches her smirking at Derek who rolls his eyes.

“Oh?” He muses, as always curious when learning something new about his boyfriend.

Derek doesn’t look like he’s up for telling the story, however.

“First time we went freestyling,” Boyd provides. “Derek crashed his bike and broke his toe.”

“I did  _not_  crash,” Derek protests. “I was trying to save the bike.”

“Whatever you say, bro,” Laura smirks.

Stiles laughs and receives a betrayed glare from Derek, but there’s no real heat behind it.

The sun is still blazing and won’t go down for a couple of hours, but Stiles knows they won’t be able to see it when re-entering the city. It’s something he’s still not used to—being surrounded by skyscrapers and big buildings. Growing up in a small town like Beacon Hills doesn’t prepare you for that kind of stuff.

Yoda had been his biggest worry when moving, that he’d miss all the open space, but he soon realized the dog adapted faster than he himself even did. New York has got several parks where different members of the gang took the husky running on a daily basis, and Central Park is  _huge_. Stiles doubts Yoda misses Beacon Hills even a little bit.

He doesn’t either. He doesn’t miss High School. He doesn’t miss Jackson Whittemore. He doesn’t miss how he felt when living there. He  _does_  misses some of the people—his dad, some of the deputies at the station, Scott and his mom, Allison, Danny, Lydia—but that’s okay because most of them come visiting him every now and then. Scott and his dad more than the rest, but even Danny swung by once. Sometimes he misses knowing he’ll see all their faces when going to school every day, but that’s part of his childhood life now and he’s fine with that.

Erica pulls him out of his thoughts by elbowing him in the side.

“One last round?” She encourages, nodding to the bikes standing by the side of the trail, waiting to be loaded onto the back of the van.

“We’ve already thrown in the helmets,” Laura says.

“Don’t need them,” Stiles decides, moving swiftly when Laura opens her mouth to protest. “I’ll go slow,” he assures, hopping on the bike and kicking off the engine before anyone can stop him.

“Stiles!” Derek calls, but Stiles has already hit the gas.

He  _does_  go slow, but it’s still fast enough for his heart to speed up. Maybe it’s true that he’s attracted to danger, but he can’t help the way it makes him feel so  _alive_  and  _free_. But he doesn’t crave going sky diving or bungee jumping or something equally bold—it’s just  _this_. Driving with the open wind in his face, ruffling his hair, with no walls shielding him from the sounds or scents.

Hitting the front brake and then squeezing the rear break sends the bike drifting through the big curve, creating a big cloud of dust from the spinning back wheel. It’s something Stiles has only done on his old mountain bike when he was younger, and he’s so thrilled it actually worked that he lets out another war cry. He’s too busy keeping the bike steady as he accelerates again to look, but he can hear Erica and the twins cheer in response.

“You’re crazy,” Derek says as soon as he’s shut off the engine and Boyd is shooing him off the bike, but he sounds more relieved and in awe than pissed.

Laura gives him a once-over. “You ruined your clothes,” she informs.

“And your face,” Isaac adds, sneering.

Stiles shakes his head violently, just like Yoda after a swim, and it rains sand from his hair.

“I’d leave you out here if Derek wouldn’t have my head for it,” Boyd mutters, grabbing his shoulder. “You’re in the front with me,” he decides. “Easier to clean up.”

Stiles doesn’t object.

 

 

They barely get inside the garage before Stiles grabs Derek by the collar and pushes him back, crowding him against the door. Derek’s hands immediately fall to Stiles’ hips, holding on tight as their mouths meet in a greedy kiss. Stiles is still high on adrenaline from the ride, feeling like he’s standing on the top of the world and he  _needs_  to share it with Derek.

And Derek probably gets it—probably knows Stiles enough at this point to understand what he needs—because he lets himself be pushed up against the wall and returns the kiss with equal force. He slips one hand underneath Stiles’ shirt, blunt nails scratching his naked hip, and not for the first time Stiles wishes he’d be able to see the marks from it one day.

“I’ve got dirt all over,” he chuckles when coming up for air. “Gonna make a bigger mess than Yoda.”

Derek hums, scratching Stiles’ jaw with his stubble, hot breath curling over his neck.

“Better get you out of these clothes out here then,” he suggests, voice low and eyes dark when flickering between Stiles’ gaze and open mouth. “Let you change before we head home.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, “let’s do that,” before capturing Derek’s lips in another hard kiss.

Derek growls low in his throat, making Stiles smile at the vibration. They remain pressed together against the garage door for a moment more before Derek slides his hands down the swell of Stiles’ ass, grabbing his thighs and lifting him off the ground. Stiles quickly gets the memo, wrapping both arms around Derek’s neck and hooking his legs around his waist to keep himself in place. He rolls his hips as Derek steps away from the door, carrying him across the garage past the parked bikes and to the desk, earning a moan for his effort.

Their mouths crash back together the second Stiles lands on the work desk, nearly knocking over the boom box in their haste to get their hands on each other. Derek grabs the hem of Stiles’ ruined shirt and pulls it off nearly frantically, dust flying as he drops it on the concrete floor. Stiles barely has time to inhale fresh air before Derek’s pulling him to the edge of the table, stepping in between his legs and claims his mouth again. Stiles is happy to comply, pressing closer against Derek’s firm body and sighing into the kiss. The wet sound from their passionate kisses and soft groans as they start rocking together is the only thing to be heard in the empty garage, nearly echoing between the clean walls.

Stiles starts clawing at Derek’s shirt, not caring that only one of them is in need in a change of clothes. Derek doesn’t seem to care either, just lifts his arms and helps taking it off. Stiles’ hands immediately slide over the exposed skin, aware that he’s leaving a trail of dirt still on his fingertips, but Derek doesn’t complain. He kisses Stiles genuinely, reaching up to card his fingers through the hair that’s still gross and dirty. Stiles hooks two fingers in the front of Derek’s jeans and pulls himself closer to the edge, rutting forward to rub their groins together through the denim. Derek breaks the kiss to let out a moan, nose nudging his cheek, and it makes Stiles shudder happily.

“Delivery!” Comes a sudden shout from inside the shop, accompanied with a series furious banging on the door, and it startles Stiles so bad he nearly falls off the desk. That’s as much warning as they get before the door bursts open and Laura steps inside, a set of clothes in her hands and wearing a pleased smile. “I figured you might want this, Stiles.”

“Laura,” Derek warns, not moving from where he’s still standing between Stiles’ knees. “Get out.”

“This is my shop,” she reasons innocently. “In the early afternoon, I might add. You’re lucky it’s Sunday and this place isn’t crawling with customers.”

Stiles wants to argue that they wouldn’t be making out half naked in the garage if the shop was open, but he also feels like he shouldn’t make those kind of promises. If Aiden gets a whiff of it he’ll start placing bets and Stiles might end up losing money.

Derek mutters under his breath and snatches the clothes from Laura’s offering hands, which makes her at least turn away and give them some privacy as she goes to check Derek’s schedule on the wall. When turning back to Stiles, he looks worried, and it takes a moment for Stiles to realize why. If this had been just a few months ago he probably would’ve tried to cover himself up when someone walked in on them with their shirts off, but he no longer feels as exposed as he used to. Derek still makes sure to give them as much privacy he can whenever possible, which would make Stiles love him even more if that was physically possible.

Besides: it’s Laura. She’s like the big sister he never wanted.

He gives Derek a simple smile to let him know that he’s fine, taking the clothes from him. It’s his swim shorts and one of Derek’s worn-out shirts—probably the only clothes lying around the shop.

“This is why we got our own place, isn’t it?” Stiles reminds him, cocking an eyebrow.

Derek’s face softens as he smiles in response, leaning in to bump his nose against Stiles’.

“Yeah, it is,” he agrees.

 


	3. first drive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this one is set before the Move A Mountain epilogue)

 

 

Stiles gets his license at the end of the summer, only a few weeks short from the anniversary of his move to New York.

There’s a mountain outside the city with the perfect view to watch the sunset. They’ve been there several times before on Derek’s Harley and it quickly became Stiles’ favorite spot. Back when they first started the driving lessons they had made a promise: that once he got his license, Stiles would come pick Derek up at the shop and they’d drive up there.

It’s late afternoon by the time Derek picks up the sound of Stiles’ engine: lighter and faster than his own. He looks over his shoulder from where he’s kneeling next to the Yamaha he’s working on, gazing out towards the street until the bike rolls into view when Stiles parks it on the drive in. He leaves the engine running as he jumps off, practically tearing off the helmet before rushing inside the garage with a blinding smile.

“I did it!” He exclaims, as if anything about his arrival hints otherwise.

Derek grins as he gets to his feet, barely managing to wipe his hands on his thighs before catching Stiles who launches himself at him. Thankfully the helmet in his hand prevents him from attempting a climb, because if he’d tried they would’ve fallen over. Derek huffs in Stiles’ ear at the harsh impact, arms wrapping around his middle to hold him in place in case he’ll start bouncing like he’d done this morning.

“Of course you did,” he mumbles into Stiles’ hair.

Stiles is still grinning when they break apart, and first then do they notice Laura standing in the doorway to the shop. She’s got her arms crossed but the smile on her lips is a warm one.

“You’re early,” she points out. “Derek’s not off for another twenty minutes.”

“Oh no,” Stiles protests, slamming his helmet down on the closest table purposely. “You are  _not_  ruining this for me. I’ve been planning this evening for months!”

Laura chuckles, stepping out of the doorway and walks over to them.

“Don’t be silly,” she sighs. “Nothing happens the last twenty minutes before closing anyway.” She winks at Derek before leaning in to hug Stiles tightly. “Congratulations, pup.”

“You’re the best,” Stiles sighs back as he returns the embrace with both hands free, and Derek can feel something inside him clench slightly at the sight.

“What about Yoda?” Laura asks once they separate.

Stiles grins again. “Told you I’ve got this all planned out already. Boyd is picking him up at our apartment as soon as he’s off work and will keep him overnight because we’ll be late and have awesome celebration sex.”

Derek huffs and ducks his head, but he knows sis sister is rolling her eyes.

“You’d make awful parents.”

“Lies,” Stiles counters in a heartbeat. “We’ll be the coolest parents.”

Derek can’t tell if Stiles is aware that he just made their hypothetically spoken children sound less hypothetical and more future plans, but judging by the look on Laura’s face he’s not the only one who did. Stiles doesn’t even appear to notice their exchanged looks, just grabs Derek’s hand and pulls him along to the bike still waiting for them outside. Derek manages to grab his jacket from its spot on the wall as they pass, unable to hide his amusement for Stiles’ excitement.

“Grab on,” he urges as soon as he’s seated, hands on the handles and legs strained to keep the bike upright beneath him.

Derek slides in behind him and places both hands on his waist, leaving only a small space or air between their bodies to make it easier for Stiles to drive. Despite all the driving lessons and the amount of times they’ve sat on parked bikes, this is the first time Stiles will drive with a passenger. It’s another first for Derek as well; he’s never been in the backseat of a moving motorcycle before.

Once he stops fidgeting, Stiles looks over his shoulder.

“Comfy?” He asks, eyes sparkling with glee.

“Very,” Derek nods, giving him a closed-mouth smile.

Wasting one more moment to just grin back at him, Stiles then squeezes the throttle.

Technically it’s not his first drive, because he’s been driving with Derek and another instructor all summer, but it’s the first time he’s on his own with no one tailing him to keep tab. Derek can tell Stiles likes it a lot; the freedom. Sometimes it’s hard to tell which one he fell in love with first—Derek or the freedom of riding a bike.

Derek remembers his first ride, after the fire and after Kate. He didn’t even have a license back then, just bought his very first bike and figured out the basics on his own. He’d admired motorcycles from afar ever since he was a kid, and his father kept saying it was something he’d have to get on his own once he was old enough. Which he had, but aside from all the toys and models, he didn’t owe a bike until they were all dead.

He remembers accelerating down a desert road and smiling for the first time in weeks.

Stiles lets go of one of the handles to tap on Derek’s grip around him, bringing him back to the present. They’re not going fast, still just outside the city, but he returns with both hands on the steering shortly. Derek huffs proudly, leaning in to smile into Stiles’ neck so he’ll know. He can feel the motion in Stiles’ jaw as he smiles in return.

They make it up the hills when the sun is not yet touching the mountains in the West. For now it’s nice to have jackets against the constant wind, but Derek knows it’ll be too hot once they park. He wonders how long they’ll have before the sun is down, and whether they’ll make it back with enough energy left to go through with the rest of Stiles’ plans.

It’s not a surprise when finding four bikes and even more people there when they reach the top, because it’s quite a popular spot. Derek thinks he can feel Stiles sigh in disappointment, probably been hoping they’d be alone. He pats him on the stomach to let him know he’s not the only one, but they’ll always have the rest of the night to themselves once they make it back home.

Derek waits for Stiles to drop his feet to the ground before following his example, letting the bike roll closer to the fence following the edge of the cliff before coming to a full stop. He shuts off the engine exhales dramatically, leaning back until Derek’s front takes some of his weight. Chuckling softly, Derek circles his arms tightly around him.

“You did great,” he mumbles, placing a peck on Stiles’ cheek.

Stiles’ smile is confident enough, but Derek is pretty sure he’s blushing.

There are some benches by the side of the road, most of the occupied, but Derek spots one just becoming vacant. Stiles, however, doesn’t look like he’s planning on getting off his bike anytime soon, and it makes warmth pool in Derek’s stomach.

His eyes sweep over the scene and settles on a couple standing by the Ducati, and Stiles must’ve noticed his gaze lingering.

“Friends of yours?” He asks curiously.

“Not the word I’d use,” Derek answers. “They’re from the twins’ old crew.”

“Really?” Stiles says, awed. “Then shouldn’t we be running in the opposite direction?”

Derek huffs, bumping Stiles’ temple with his forehead.

“They’re not criminals, Stiles. Well,” he corrects himself, “at least nothing too bad.” Stiles snorts. “They’re a little worse than Ethan and Aiden.”

“Which is bad,” Stiles smirks. “You know them?”

“They’ve been by the shop a few times,” Derek replies. “First time to apologize to Ethan and the rest just for business.”

“Seriously?” Stiles asks.

Derek nods, thinking that the small pieces of information Stiles has gathered about Ethan’s crash must be clicking further into place. It’s kind of amazing it’s been a year without Stiles running into either of them when coming by the garage, but then again he’s been busy with school.

Stiles nudges him with an elbow. “You’re going over there or what?”

Derek hesitates, not wanting to ruin Stiles’ evening by talking to strangers he doesn’t know, but if Kali spots him later there’ll be no escaping anyway.

“Yeah,” he drawls, climbing off the bike and looks Stiles straight in the eye. “I’ll be right back,” he promises.

Stiles nods, smiling easily as if to prove that he doesn’t mind.

Ennis doesn’t spot him until he’s only a few feet away, eyebrows raising in greeting as he walks around the parked bike to meet him.

“Derek,” he says. “Long time no see.” He throws a glance behind Derek. “Where’s your ride?”

“I came here with my boyfriend,” Derek explains, nodding to Kali sitting on the bench nearby.

“Oh yeah,” Ennis smiles. “Your man got his license?” At Derek’s surprised lift of an eyebrow he clarifies: “Laura told me you were out on driving lessons last time I swung by your lair.”

Derek hums, unable to not find it amusing that Ennis refers to Stiles as a man while Laura’s still set on calling him a  _boy_.

“That him?” Ennis wonders, looking over Derek’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Derek says, instinctively turning to look for himself.

Stiles isn’t looking in their direction; he’s watching the sun on the other side of the valley. He’s shed the leather jacket, sun kissed skin looking nearly golden in the light of the setting sun. It’s a trick of the eye, but Derek knows that even in a different light Stiles isn’t as pale as he used to be. Not as lean either. Derek admires the shadows outlining the muscles on his arms and his legs flexing as they still take on the weight of both Stiles himself and the bike.

He realizes he’s been watching his boyfriend just a moment too long when he turns back to Ennis and finds him smirking. Derek scoffs, attempting to hide his flushed face by ducking his head.

“Congratulations,” Ennis says genuinely, and Derek’s got no clue whether he’s talking about Stiles’ driver’s license or the fact that Derek found someone as gorgeous as him.

 _Whatever_.

“Thanks,” he still says, smiling awkwardly. “I should— I just thought I’d say hi.”

“You did,” Ennis offers, still smiling smugly.

Derek nods, throwing the Ducati an appreciating glance as he steps backwards.

“Tell Kali she should come by and bother Laura more often.”

Ennis laughs. “Sure. Tell Ethan he should give me a call sometime.”

Derek keeps on nodding as he spins around despite thinking Ethan will be better off not to.

Stiles doesn’t see him until he walks into his line of sight, stepping up right in front of the bike and places one foot on each side of the font wheel as he leans in to kiss Stiles without warning. He slides his hands around Stiles’ biceps, loving how hot the skin feels under his fingertips. Stiles makes a surprised noise, muffled against Derek’s lips, but then he chuckles and opens his mouth to respond. One of his hands grabs the collar of Derek’s jacket, but the other remains on its handle in fear of losing balance. It’s tender and passionate at the same time, their mouths sliding together with ease.

There’s a smile playing on Stiles’ lips when they part, and it’s a perfect reminder to why Derek fell in love with this boy more or less the first time he laid eyes on him.

“I’m proud of you,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against Stiles’.

Stiles scoffs lightly.

“Come on,” he says. “You’ve seen me drive. It can’t have been that much of a shock.”

“Not just that,” Derek says, craning his neck so he can look Stiles in the eye. He reaches up to run a hand through Stiles’ hair, tousled from the ride in the wind. Stiles lets him, just watching him with big eyes. “I mean everything you’ve done since we met.” He smiles softly. “You’ve grown.”

Because to Derek, it’s never been about getting tattoos or an MC license. Stiles doesn’t need any of those to earn his place in the gang. He  _never_  did. It’s not the reason he stole Derek’s heart last summer on that camping ground in New Mexico. He was already perfect without wanting to adapt to fit into Derek’s life. The fact that he  _does_  want it—the fact that he’s in love with Derek’s lifestyle as much as Derek himself—is enough to make Derek feel like the luckiest guy in the world, but it’s not the change he’s referring to.

He’s proud because when he called Stiles beautiful for the first time, he didn’t believe him. When switching on a light, his first instinct had been to cover himself from Derek’s eyes. He’d been so small, so insecure and unaware of his own value; couldn’t understand why someone like Derek would want him. He’s not like that anymore, and for Derek to know he played some part in Stiles’ transformation is enough to put a smile on his face any day. Stiles doesn’t avoid mirrors or hides his face when someone snaps a picture of him anymore; he sticks his tongue out and seems to think  _fuck it_. It’s beautiful.

And it’s beautiful, the way Stiles’ whole face lights up at his words.

“You know,” he sighs happily, “my dad says the same thing.”

“He’s an observant man,” Derek smiles.

“He is,” Stiles agrees with a chuckle. He tugs at Derek’s jacket. “Now strip and get your ass back here.”

Derek laughs, rolling his eyes but shrugs out of his jacket and obeys.

They sit mostly in silence as they watch the sun lower itself behind the mountains, covering the city below in shadows. Derek’s got one arm thrown around Stiles’ middle, hand resting on Stiles’ belly with their fingers intertwined. His free hand is lying idly on Stiles’ thigh, barely moving apart from his thumb stroking the fabric of his jeans absently.

Stiles has got his head tipped back, neck supported by Derek’s shoulder. There’s no space between them, and even with the heat from the sun fading it’s still warm enough to not reach for their jackets yet. Derek’s nosing at Stiles’ temple, inhaling the other man’s familiar scent with every intake of breath. He smells of sun and dog and sugar and the rest that is just  _him_.

When the sun is gone, so are most of the people around them. One by one they all cleared out, bikes taking off and driving back down the mountain. Ennis and Kali had waved when rolling by them, and Derek had nodded while Stiles waved right back. Eventually it was just them and one more couple left by the side of the road, looking out over the city.

“I love you,” Derek whispers into Stiles’ cheek.

He doesn’t say it nearly enough, and sometimes he hates himself for it. He should tell Stiles every day just how much, despite how Stiles keeps telling him he doesn’t have to, that he already  _knows_. But that’s not the point. The point is that Derek loves saying it out loud, loves seeing the look on Stiles’ face whenever he hears it. Derek  _loves_   _loving_  Stiles.

As it is, Derek can’t see the expression on Stiles’ face, but he can picture it perfectly. He hums happily, turning his head further to the side so he can press his cheek against Derek’s chin. He’s way past complaining about beard burn at this point.

“Love you too, you big softie,” he sighs, sounding so content it makes Derek’s heart swell.

Derek doesn’t mind being a softie. Not one bit.

 


	4. fight or flight

 

 

Like most of their fights, it starts with Ethan.

Well, it actually starts with  _Stiles_ , because contrary to popular beliefs that Ethan is the one getting him in trouble, Stiles makes his own decisions. It just so happens that Ethan is present more often than not when he makes what Derek refers to as the bad ones. He needs a scapegoat and would rather bark at Ethan than his own boyfriend.

That doesn’t mean he’s not upset with Stiles though.

“What were you thinking?” Derek mutters, leaning on the kitchen counter with hands gripping the edge. He hasn’t changed from work yet, still wearing the tank top that’s only white when it’s fresh out of laundry.

“You know exactly what I was thinking,” Stiles argues, half wanting to get up from where he’s sitting by the table and approach Derek, half hoping to be left alone to finish his dinner in peace, “because you ask me this every single time.”

Derek snorts, spinning around to look at him, and Stiles immediately wishes he hadn’t. He hates the look on Derek’s face; the frustration, the disappointment. It always makes Stiles’ heart sink like a stone. Yoda is lying under the table, slowly losing interest in any food Stiles might drop and becomes more aware of their raised voices.

“Yeah,” Derek nods sarcastically. “That  _it’d be_   _fun_.”

“Yes!” Stiles scoffs. “In case it escaped your attention: I like bikes. I like riding them.  _Fast_.”

“With  _Ennis?_ ” Derek snaps, and Stiles’ mouth slams shut. “It’s bad enough that the twins are still in touch with them but _you?_  Haven’t you heard a word Boyd or I ever said about street racing?”

Stiles did hear a word; all of them in fact. He remembers when the gang first told the story of how the twins left their old crew after Ethan crashed his bike, showing up at Derek and Laura’s shop as soon as he got out of the hospital to get it fixed. He knows Derek purposely worked on it for  _months_  just so Ethan wouldn’t jump right back in once he got his motorcycle back. He’s not stupid; he knows it’s dangerous.

“I didn’t even race,” he shoots back, voice growing irritated. “I just came to watch.”

Ethan’s phone had rung while just the two of them were hanging out outside the garage, and after hanging up on Ennis he’d asked Stiles if he wanted to come along to watch a race. Stiles hadn’t been able to decline—too curious and thrilled by the thought.

“Don’t you think that’s exactly how everyone starts off?” Derek huffs.

Stiles huffs right back. “I don’t need to listen to this,” he decides, getting up.

“Yes, you do,” Derek protests, taking one step in front of him, blocking his path.

Despite Derek being both bigger and heavier than him, Stiles still manages to shove him aside and exit the room, but only because Derek lets himself be moved. He could keep Stiles if he wanted to, but that’s not how they fight. They never trap each other.

“I’m so tired of you lecturing me about what I can and cannot do,” Stiles says as he heads for the front door, Yoda trudging after him in hope for a walk. Stiles needs to get out of here before they start yelling at each other for real. Those times are the worst. “You’re worried I’ll start racing with Duke’s crew and join up with them, I get that—”

“That’s not what this is about,” Derek interrupts, voice sharp behind Stiles’ back.

“I never understand what these arguments are about,” Stiles admits drily, pulling on his jacket and making sure his keys are in the left pocket.

He rips the door open and steps outside, turning back to make sure Yoda stays put. The dog sits back on his haunches on the doormat, giving him an expectant look that Stiles hates to turn down. Derek grips the doorframe, leaning forward with his shoulders sloughing.

“Don’t do this,” he says quietly.

And Stiles almost gives in right then and there, because he doesn’t want to do this either. It’s always worse when one of them leaves. It hurts when Derek is the one walking away from a fight, and he knows it hurts just as much when he’s the one doing it. But he needs the space, needs to breathe, to be on his own for a while to sort his thoughts before saying something he’ll regret.

“You’re the one who got me the bike,” he says instead. “You’re the one who got me into this life, and I fucking love you for it, but when you act like you’d rather have me not touching anything with an engine with a ten foot pole, I don’t know what the hell you expect me to do.”

“I expect you to not do anything reckless,” Derek shoots back. “Owning a motorcycle doesn’t mean you need to be suicidal. That’s never what I wanted for you.”

“What  _did_  you want for me?” Stiles asks, chuckling mirthlessly. “To just drive it home from school? Maybe go for a daytrip with you now and then?” He sighs heavily, running a hand through his hair. “That’s not me, Derek. I’ll start climbing the walls if I don’t ride it off. I have too much energy. I’m not—I’m not as peaceful as you are, and after putting up with me for over a year you should know that.”

He turns around and hurries down the stairwell, before Mrs. Satomi peeks out of her apartment to offer them tea to calm down. She’s tried to mend their argues before, and while it’s sweet to have a neighbor who cares about the young couple living across from her, Stiles is ashamed that she has to hear any of it. Derek doesn’t try to stop him, doesn’t call out after him, and just like every time Stiles can’t decide whether he’s disappointed or grateful.

 

 

The air smells of rain even through the helmet, and Stiles is happy he didn’t take his leather jacket, even if it’s only drizzling. He drives out of the city, choosing the smallest roads until the rumbling engine is the only noise in his ears. It’s familiar—the silence. After growing up in a small town like Beacon Hills, New York can get too loud for him sometimes. It really is ‘the city that never sleeps’.

He never thought he’d understand how Scott and Allison fought so much, but he does now, and he’s not afraid that every little argue is gonna break him and Derek up. He knows they want each other too much. Couples fight and make up; he’s seen it with his friends as well as parents when he was younger.

First time it happened Stiles had been terrified, scared that it would ruin them. He doesn’t even remember what they were arguing about, probably something silly and insignificant. That’s what they usually flare up about: the small things. Dishes, Yoda, laundry, forgotten promises; everyday things that at the end of the day don’t even matter.

But this isn’t one of the small things. It’s the one thing that keeps coming back, reminding them how their beginning is not like most beginnings. That they said they wanted forever before finding out just how different they are; how Stiles needs speed while Derek needs peace. There’s an uncomfortable weight in Stiles’ chest, getting heavier by each mile he drives; the farther he gets from Derek.

He doesn’t even try to keep track of time, but he keeps going till the rain stops falling and the sky goes dark. First then does he turn back, glancing down to check the time on his dashboard, knowing he’s been gone for a lot longer than he should. He feels bad for leaving Yoda behind—he’s not the one Stiles needed distance from—but he also knows the dog considers their apartment and Derek his home as much as Stiles.

His eyes don’t widen at the blinking 10:43 however: they’re drawn to the fuel meter, because he’s out of gas. A laugh surges through him and slips out of his mouth before he can stop it, remembering what Derek had said right after giving him the bike.  _Oh the irony._

 

 

He comes home to a dark and silent apartment, knowing it’s past midnight and Derek must’ve gone to bed already. Yoda trots out of the bedroom to greet him, claws clicking against the floor. Stiles sighs as he flops down on the couch in the living room, leaning down to bury his face in the dog’s fur.

“Your daddies are dealing with some adult issues tonight,” he explains in a quiet murmur. “You can go back in there if you want to. I won’t blame you. The bed is a lot comfier than this thing.”

But Yoda doesn’t seem to care, letting Stiles scratch him behind the ears until he’s pleased before jumping up to curl up in the far end of the couch by Stiles’ feet, yawning contentedly and appears to go back to sleep. Stiles smiles to himself, petting the dog for a moment longer before slipping out of his jeans and shirt to crawl under the blanket, using the arm support for pillow.

He tries to listen for Derek’s heavy breathing from the bedroom, but he hears nothing.

 

 

Stiles must’ve dozed off without noticing because next thing he knows someone’s shadow wanders across his closed eyelids, bringing him back to consciousness. He opens his eyes, blinking a few times before they adjust to the darkness. Derek is standing over him, wearing nothing but his boxers with his hair all tousled.

“Why are you sleeping on the couch?” He asks, voice sleepy.

“Because we’re fighting,” Stiles sighs, rubbing his hand across his eyes.

Derek shrugs. “Not fighting anymore,” he points out. “Come here.”

He wraps his hand around Stiles’ wrist and half-heartedly pulls in an attempt to get him up.

“No,” Stiles objects. “We can’t solve everything with sex, Derek.”

“No sex,” Derek drawls, still tugging at his arm. “I just wanna sleep. Need you for that. We can go back to fighting tomorrow if you want to.”

Stiles scoffs, despite himself. “Idiot,” he mumbles. “Of course I don’t want to.”

“Good,” Derek says. “Then come to bed and spoon me.”

Defeated, Stiles sighs and allows himself to be pulled up to his feet and dragged along by the hand to the bedroom. He hears Yoda hopping off the couch and following them without any sign of complaint, going straight for the dog bed in the corner. Stiles and Derek climbs into the king-sized bed with ease, settling down with Stiles’ arm slung around Derek’s waist like they’ve done a hundred times before.

It’s quiet for a while; long enough for Stiles to assume Derek’s fallen asleep. Personally he’s not that tired anymore, too relieved and aware of having Derek back in his arms. He leans his forehead on the back of Derek’s head, letting out a breath, and it’s the way Derek shudders that proves he’s still awake.

“I took the bike out,” Stiles says.

“I figured,” Derek replies, voice muffles by the pillow.

Stiles smiles faintly into Derek’s nape. “I had to stop for gas on my way home.”

Derek’s whole body vibrates when he laughs, and Stiles can feel the weight around his heart resolve even further.

“Well,” Derek sighs once he’s sinking back on the bed, “I guess it was bound to happen at some point.”

Stiles hums in agreement, and then there’s silence again. They’re breathing calmly, and it takes a moment before Stiles realizes it’s in sync with each other. Carefully he moves his hand from where it’s idly draped across Derek’s middle to slide it up to his chest, resting it above his beating heart.

“Are we okay?” Stiles can’t help but ask.

Derek sighs softly, placing one of his own hands on top of Stiles’. “Of course we are.”

Even though he deep down knew they were, Stiles still lets out a small breath in relief. He drops a simple kiss to the back of Derek’s neck, the skin warm against his lips. He gets a happy hum in response before Derek shifts and rolls onto his back, looking him in the eye.

“I just don’t like the idea of you hanging out with them,” he admits quietly.

Stiles pops himself up on one elbow, eyes darting over Derek’s face.

“I haven’t seen you jealous in a long time.”

“There’s a difference between being a jealous boyfriend and a protective one,” Derek returns.

Stiles swallows. “I know,” he says honestly. “I’m sorry.”

But Derek shakes his head. “Don’t. Just—” He sighs again, looking lost. “Stiles, I  _know_  you’re not like me. I’ve known that since we first met. I don’t  _want_  you to be like me.” Stiles leans into the touch when he reaches up to cup Stiles’ face with one hand. “I’m scared of Laura barging into the garage one day to tell me you’ve been in an accident,” he confesses, making Stiles pause. “It was the same with Isaac in the beginning, but he doesn’t got your need for speed.”

Derek swipes his thumb over Stiles’ cheekbone, eyes lowering for a moment. Stiles waits patiently, steadily meeting Derek’s gaze when he looks back up again.

“I love you,” he says easily. “All of you—recklessness included. I’m not gonna forbid you to do anything; it’s not my job. But please… Don’t get hurt.”

Stiles makes a sad noise in the back of his throat, leaning down to grab Derek’s face and claim his mouth in a hard kiss. It’s sudden and without warning, but Derek returns it with equal force. He slides his hand up to Stiles’ neck, pulling him in. They kiss like they’ve both been starving for it, like everything is not forgotten but  _forgiven_. And Stiles understands.

“I won’t,” Stiles breathes out between hot kisses. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

And Derek mumbles something Stiles can’t make out against his open mouth, but it feels like an apology accepted because the next second Derek’s hands are everywhere, grabbing him and rolling them over until Stiles is on his back with Derek sprawled on top. It’s heady and desperate in the best way, and they both suck in sharp breaths of air when Derek leans up to shift his weight onto his elbow.

When their hips start moving in sync, rocking against one another, Stiles is just about to remind Derek of the 'no sex’ as a gasp slips out of him instead. Derek hums like he agrees, putting more of his weight on his elbow to be able to thrust down more firmly. Stiles gets lost in the sensation, rubbing their groins together with only the thin fabric of their underwear separating their growing erections. One of his hands is at the back of Derek’s head, keeping them close enough for their naked chests to touch.

It’s Derek’s hand sneaking into his, intertwining their fingers above their heads that pulls him out of the daze. He smiles against Derek’s mouth, squeezing his hand in a wordless response. Derek licks into his mouth, the movement of his hips getting more frenetic. Stiles is just asking himself whether they’ll get naked or keep this up until they come untouched like teenagers when Derek sits back on his calves between Stiles’ legs. His hair is an even bigger mess than earlier with Stiles running his fingers through it, his lips bruised and parted as he smiles down at Stiles.

His shoulder ends up right in front of Stiles’ face as he reaches for the bedside table, and Stiles can’t help but drag his teeth over the skin before kissing it as well. Derek groans softly, fumbling a little before he finds the lube and sits up again. Stiles would pout over not reaching him, but then Derek hooks two fingers in the waistband of his boxers and pulls them down, cock springing free, and suddenly Stiles doesn’t mind just watching.

Scratch that: he does  _not_  just want to watch—he wants to  _touch_ —but there’s not much room to move with Derek stepping out of his underwear and tossing them on the floor before going to remove Stiles’ just as easily. Stiles lifts his hips and helps get them out of the way, and then they’re naked—not  a single layer of fabric between them—and Stiles is just about to sit up to finally put his hands all over Derek when instead he’s being straddled.

Derek moves with purpose, eyes locked with Stiles’ as he slicks up his fingers and reaches back behind himself. Stiles knows his mouth is open, knowing the crazy want is written all over his face. He wants to  _see_ , wants to  _help_ , but he settles to caress Derek’s thigh with one hand while wrapping his other around his dick, jerking himself to full hardness.

The air feels hot and heavy between them, and at some point Yoda must’ve decided he didn’t wanna be in the same room as his banging parents because his bed is empty when Stiles glances over. It makes him laugh breathlessly, but at Derek’s quirked eyebrow he just shrugs.

A moan slips out of Derek’s parted mouth and Stiles knows he just added another finger. He bites his lip, squeezing himself but is careful not getting too close to the edge already. He reaches blindly for the bottle of lube on the mattress, not wanting to look away from Derek as a dark flush starts to spread across his chest. Stiles can’t hold in the gasp when his lubed up hand returns to his cock, feeling the hot pleasure build in his gut. His boyfriend is watching him with the same intensity as Stiles gives him in returns, hips moving almost absently as if he can’t help but chase after his own fingers. Stiles swears under his breath.

When Derek shifts again, both hands coming into view as he shuffles further up the bed, Stiles’ mind automatically goes to _condoms!_  before remembering they don’t need those anymore. It had been Stiles who brought it up a few months ago, and they both got tested before deciding that they were safe to stop using protection completely. Derek hasn’t been with anyone else since he met Stiles and Stiles’ track record only consists of the hot biker in sunglasses he met last summer.

Stiles can feel the heat radiating from Derek’s body as he leans down to kiss him on the mouth. It’s wet and filthy, and Stiles’ whole body is buzzing when Derek leans back enough to stare into his eyes.

“I’m gonna ride you,” he whispers huskily. “Ride you like you ride your bike.”

Stiles’ chest heaves as he breathes. “Recklessly?”

“Wild,” Derek corrects him, bumping his nose against Stiles’. “Fast.” He nips at Stiles’ jaw. “ _Hard_.”

“Oh god, just do it,” Stiles groans, cock stirring in his hand at Derek’s damn  _voice_.

Derek huffs, giving him a quick peck before standing up on his knees. He reaches down behind him for Stiles’ impatient dick to guide it to his entrance. Stiles doesn’t hesitate to grab a handful of that ass, thinking he might as well be helpful and spread Derek’s cheeks open. Both of them gasp quietly when the head presses against Derek’s hole, both watching each other’s faces as if they hadn’t seen the other’s reaction to this countless times already.

It’s always overwhelming: the heat surrounding him as Derek starts to sink down his cock. He’s  _tight_  and Stiles wonders how many fingers he worked himself up to, but is too lost in the pleasure to ask. Derek’s steadying himself with his hands on Stiles’ sides, chest heaving in rhythm as he keeps taking more of Stiles in. It used to be maddening, the way Stiles has to keep himself from tilting his hips up and just thrust into that tight heat, but Derek really is going faster this time, even on the first stroke down. He’s breathing evenly with his mouth hanging open, and Stiles strokes soothing circles in the skin of his hips and small of his back.

He almost tells him  _don’t hurt yourself_  before realizing the irony thanks to the riding pun.

And just like Stiles wouldn’t stop if someone told him to stay put, Derek barely pauses when he’s got all of Stiles’ dick inside of him. He puts his hands flat on the mattress on each side of Stiles and starts to  _move_ —circling his hips before lifting himself up an inch and sinking back down again. Stiles moans in surprise, fingers digging into Derek’s skin.

“Fuck,” he hisses.

Derek only seems encouraged: rolling his hips again before lifting up and sinking down, as if trying to find the right angle. Stiles just lets him, doing his best not to move and let Derek fuck himself on his dick. The room is filled with the sound of their heavy breathing and the slap of skin as Derek’s speed escalates.

Eventually Stiles can’t help but plant his feet flat on the bed and fuck into Derek, meeting his rapid thrusts feverously. Derek moans loudly, panting into the empty space between them. His eyelids flutter shut as his mouth falls wide open, and Stiles has to bite his tongue to keep himself from making more embarrassing noises than he already is.

It feels way too soon when he can feel his orgasm building low in his belly, but he doesn’t even try to have Derek change his pace. This is  _wild_ ,  _fast_ ,  _hard_  and perfect. He slides his hand over Derek’s skin that’s damp with sweat to wrap it around his neglected dick, stroking it while Derek keeps bouncing with a loud grunt, eyes flying open to stare back down at Stiles whose heart skips a beat at the sight. Even in this low light he can tell Derek’s pupils are dilated and clouded with want.

He comes with a strangled cry, tightening his grip around Derek’s cock and hip. Derek rides him through it, moving one of his own hands to jerk himself off when Stiles gets distracted by the orgasm punching all air out of his lungs. He comes down from his high just as Derek crosses his own finish line and shoots his load onto Stiles’ chest with a grunt.

They lie next to each other in bed for a moment catching their breaths, and Stiles knows Derek will want to clean up before going to sleep.

“Admit it,” he pants out, tilting his head to look over to Derek. “Reckless and fast is kinda awesome.”

Derek huffs, sounding just as breathless as him.

“If you think this will change my mind about fast driving then you’re horribly mistaken.” He shifts to lie on his side, unable to hold back a soft groan that makes Stiles smile. “But if you wanna take a ride on me instead of the bike that could get you killed, you won’t hear me complaining.”

Stiles laughs, all sex drunk and happy. “Deal.”

He crawls closer and kisses Derek lazily, both of them sighing into the kiss. Stiles is just ducking his head down to nuzzle into Derek’s chest when the clicking sound of Yoda’s claws reveals the dog’s return.

“We’re gonna traumatize him one day,” Derek mumbles.

 


	5. broken

 

 

Words cannot describe the feeling that washes over Derek when the door of the garage bursts open and he spots Laura standing in the doorway, phone in her hand. They won’t do it justice.

“Derek,” she says, voice unsteady, but he already knows what it’s about.

It feels like he’s falling, the ground disappearing beneath his feet. He rises from where he’s been crouching next to the bike he’d been working on seconds ago, nearly losing his balance. A wrench slips from his hand, almost landing on his right foot, but he barely even registers the clattering sound as it makes contact with the concrete floor.

“Stiles was in an accident,” Laura continues, actually confirming Derek’s worst nightmare coming true. “I don’t know what happened. I just— The hospital—” She waves weakly with her phone.

He can feel something sharp grip around his heart, tugging, ripping him open.

Stiles. Oh god,  _Stiles_.

And Derek knows he should be running out the door, should be getting to Stiles’ side as soon as possible, but he can’t move. Despite how many times he’s mentally prepared himself for this moment—every time he’s been reminded of his boyfriend’s recklessness on the bike—he’s shocked; frozen on the spot.

“Why—” He starts, but has to stop and swallow down a dry throat. “Why didn’t he— They—”

Laura follows his gaze as he looks over to where his phone lies in its usual place on his work desk, and seems to understand what’s going through his head.

“They tried to reach you first,” she says, sounding nearly apologetic. Tears are in her eyes, her voice sounding thick, as if she’s just barely managing to hold back a sob. “They called you, but— I guess—”

She gestures to the boom box on the table—which had been blasting loud rock music only minutes ago but must’ve reached the end of the cassette because it’s gone quiet—and Derek feels a hot wave of rage and guilt surging up within him.

Because Stiles had been in an accident that landed him in the hospital and Derek hadn’t heard his phone ringing because he’d been playing his stupid music too damn loud. The same music Stiles turned down every time he entered the garage when he came over after school, before shaking his head at Derek and kissing him hard.

Derek grits his teeth and suddenly regains control of his own limbs, strides over to the desk and grabs the old radio before he barely knows what he’s doing. He throws it into the opposite wall with a roar, body shaking at the sound of it breaking and crashing to the floor.

Laura’s got tears streaming down her cheeks when he looks back at her, and he feels so lost. He wants to walk up to her and wrap his arms around her, telling her it’s gonna be okay, but more than anything he wants to collapse at her feet and let her do the consoling.

He can’t be the strong one. Not for this.

“We gotta go, Derek,” she sniffles. “He’s in surgery but we should be there.”

Once again he feels like he’s going to lose his balance, but he manages to keep himself from falling by gripping the sharp edge of the desk. His palm hurts, perhaps he even broke the skin, but it keeps him grounded.

“The shop,” he begins, but his sister shakes her head.

“I already closed it for the day.”

Derek swallows, pursing his lips as he starts to walk towards her and the door, legs unsteady.

“John—”

“They already called him,” Laura assures him, grabbing his arm once he’s close enough. Derek can’t tell if it’s to pull him along faster or simply to make sure he doesn’t fall on the way to the car. “Right after they tried your cell. He knows.”

He’s relieved, but more than anything he’s surprised.

Because while he’s not really Stiles’ family, they are  _partners_. They have a life together, with a dog and an apartment and a king-size bed. He’s gonna fucking marry Stiles one day, hopefully adopt a kid or two, and yet he’s surprised that the hospital called him first instead of John.

Stiles’ dad knows, which means Scott and the others back in Beacon Hills do too. Derek tries to breathe out, tries to find some small comfort in that. Even if they can’t do anything, at least they  _know_. And maybe that’s what finally helps him come back to his own body, to realize that he’s the one who should be hitting the gas to be with Stiles when he wakes up. Be the one to hold his hand, because he can, because that’s  _his job_.

“Let’s go,” he rasps, and they head for the car.

 

 

Laura drives, which Derek is deeply grateful for because he wouldn’t be able to.

He feels sick just watching the road—can’t help but wondering on which street it had happened, how many people were involved or how many vehicles. Because Laura hadn’t said anything about it being a car accident, if the hospital had even told her that, but she didn’t need to. Derek knows that’s what it is.

Neither of them talk.

It takes too long to drive through New York—even with Laura doing her best to go around the center of the city where the worst traffic jams are—and it leaves Derek way too much time to think.

He desperately tries to remember what words he’d last said to Stiles this morning—when Derek was still wearing sweatpants and inhaling his coffee while Stiles was just about to head out the door, helmet tucked under his arm. He can’t recall; can’t say if it was something sincere or silly. At least they hadn’t been fighting. He tries to remember the last thing he heard Stiles say. It was probably him saying goodbye to Yoda, telling him to be a good boy and not howl and disturb Mrs. Satomi when Derek’s left for work, too. They had started training him to be alone, which is something Stiles should’ve done himself years ago, but better late than never.

“Yoda,” he croaks out, surprised by his own voice. “He’s been home alone since I walked him on my lunch break. Stiles was supposed to be home by now.”

It hurts talking about it, and Derek can feel it burn behind his eyes.

“We’ll call Erica once we get to the hospital,” Laura says, trying to sound calm and reassuring. “She can stay with him. We should— We should call the others, too.”

Derek thinks that she could’ve just asked him to do it—he’s not the one driving the car—but she must realize he’s not capable of breaking the news to anyone right now. He nods without response, having nothing else to say except thanking her for being strong enough for both of them.

 

 

It’s not the first time he has spent over an hour in the ER waiting room, but Derek’s pretty sure he’s never been this close to breaking down before. There’s a lump in his throat, his chest feeling too tight to contain his hammering heart, and he tries to breathe evenly through his parted mouth.

He’s hunched over in one of the armchairs, leaning forward with his sleeves on his knees. Laura’s on the phone in the hallway to his left, and Derek has no clue who she’s talking to, but he knows she put a door between them so he wouldn’t hear. He’s both grateful and frustrated by how many things she’s shielding him from.

Derek’s developed a headache from all the thinking, and he tries to keep his mind from running away but it’s no use. He wonders where Stiles’ bike is, how bad it’s damaged, and he hopes it’s ruined for good. He blames himself for the crash, blames himself for buying Stiles the bike and teaching him how to drive. He thinks of John and hates himself for taking Stiles across the country, so far away from his father who should be here right now.

But most of all he thinks of Stiles; his beautiful Stiles, lying bruised and battered in a room somewhere. No one had promised them that he was gonna be fine, that his injuries weren’t fatal, and the longer time that passed by without anyone giving them more information, the lower Derek’s heart sank.

He can’t do anything, can’t help Stiles, can’t save him, so all he can really do is feeling utterly helpless.

So he waits.

Waits until the nurse who’d showed them to the waiting room reappears, and Derek is on his feet in a heartbeat. Laura is at his side in an instant, phone returning to her pocket. Derek tries to read the woman’s face to know if there are good or bad news, but the careful smile on her lips could be either.

“He’s out of surgery,” she finally says, looking between them as if not sure whom she should direct it to. “We did an X-ray and found one of his lungs was squashed and had to get rid of the air and blood trapped beneath it. He had trouble breathing,” she says, and Derek feels it starting to burn behind his eyes again. “But he’s gonna be fine.”

Derek is aware that the breath he lets out is both shaky and loud, but he doesn’t care. He’s beyond caring about anything other than the fact that Stiles is gonna be okay.

“Can I see him?” He asks, desperation obvious in his voice.

The nurse nods, looking over to Laura.

“I’ll stay out here,” she says. “I need to tell the others. Derek should be with him.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, lingering to look at his sister even as the nurse goes to show him the way.

She smiles weakly, eyes still puffy from all the tears.

“Go,” she urges.

Derek squeezes her hand once before following the nurse down another corridor.

 

 

He’s tried to prepare himself for the worst, and yet Derek feels like his legs are gonna give the moment he enters the room and sees Stiles lying on the bed. He’s sleeping, hands rising and falling where they’re resting on top of his belly, and his face looks peaceful despite the red and purple bruises on his pale skin.

Derek somehow manages to hold back a sob as he steps closer, seeing Stiles’ broken lip and black eye as well as the ugly bruise framing his cheekbone. More than anything he wants to lean down and cup Stiles’ face in his hands, kiss it better and just cry. But he keeps it together while walking up to stand next to the hospital bed, heart beating harshly against its cage.

“The ribs will heal themselves within a couple weeks,” the nurse informs from where she’s standing by the foot of the bed, as if sensing that he needs to be the closest to Stiles. “He’s still sedated but should wake up shortly. He’s gonna need some pretty heavy pain killers, and should definitely not drive until he’s fully healed.”

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t,” Derek promises.

“We’ve tried to keep pressure off his abdomen, but—”

She gestures to Stiles’ hands resting comfortably on his stomach. Derek can’t stop the fond smile tugging at his lips.

“He does that,” he mumbles.

“You can sit with him if you want. I’m sure he’ll wake up soon.”

Derek nods without taking his eyes off Stiles, and then they’re alone.

And he  _does_  cry then, unable to hold it in any longer. He grips the edge of the bed with both hands and lets the tears fall, trying to clear his blurred vision by blinking rapidly with his gaze still fixed on Stiles’ sleeping frame. Everything hurts, from his burning eyes to his clenching heart, and yet it’s like something starts to loosen within him the more he cries. His chest that’s felt constricted and too small to contain his thumping heart starts to expand, giving room to the uneven beats. Tears are falling, heavy as raindrops onto the white sheets for a long time before he drags a hand down his face and sniffles as he straightens up.

He looks around the room while clumsily drying his tears, and he spots Stiles’ jacket hanging on a chair. It’s covered in dirt and what may be dried blood, but Derek still takes a step closer. He digs into the pockets and finds Stiles’ phone. The screen is busted but it lights up at Derek’s press of a button, and he heads into Stiles’ contact lists—once again pondering over Stiles having disabled the lock—and pauses.

On top of the list he reads:

 _1 ICE Derek_  
2 ICE Dad  
3 ICE Laura

It almost makes him start sobbing again, but he puts a hand over his mouth to hold it in. He’s not surprised Stiles was smart enough to put ICE contacts on his phone before he got in an accident, but he  _is_  surprised by the ranking. Though it explains why he’d got the first call; because Stiles had wanted him to.

He takes a few breaths before putting the phone back where it was and goes back to Stiles’ bedside. Derek watches him sleep for a bit, watches the steady rise and fall of his chest, before pulling up a chair and sits down. Carefully, he takes one of Stiles’ hands in his, shivering at the warmth in his skin because he was expecting the opposite, and intertwines their fingers on the mattress.

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” he whispers, resting his chin on the bed.

 

 

Stiles wakes up with a soft groan, and Derek jerks to his feet with his heart in his throat. He’s still holding onto one of Stiles’ hands, and he waits patiently as Stiles slowly regains conscious and opens his eyes. Well, one eye, because his right refuses to open more than halfway. It makes Derek’s throat tighten up all over again, but the relief of Stiles being awake is more important.

Finally, Stiles’ one good eye lands on Derek standing next to his bed, and his vision becomes focused.

“Derek?” He croaks, voice dry and strained.

“Hey,” Derek whispers, trying to smile but he can tell it’s not working. “Hey, how’re you feeling?”

A weak noise escapes Stiles’ throat, and he grimaces.

“Hurts,” he rasps.

“You’re supposed to get pain killers,” Derek says, looking at the door. “I should—”

“No, wait,” Stiles says, voice growing a little stronger. Derek looks back at him. “I want— I wanna be alone with you for just a bit.”

Derek wants to protest, wants to insist that he should get his meds to get rid of the pain, but doesn’t.

“Okay,” Derek nods, swallowing down a dry throat and runs his thumb over Stiles’ knuckles.

Stiles is looking at him with an expression Derek can’t quite read, but it leaves him unsettled. He thinks it might be pain or shock after what happened, but after a moment of silence he can’t help but ask.

“What is it?”

At least Stiles doesn’t brush it off, but parts his lip as if to answer, but it takes a while before he does.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be here,” he admits in a murmur.

Derek frowns in confusion and hurt.

“Why the hell wouldn’t I be?” He asks.

Stiles looks down, avoiding Derek’s gaze and clenches his jaw before replying.

“I thought you’d be angry with me.”

Derek sighs, running his free hand down his face.

“Stiles…”

“You  _should_  be angry,” Stiles goes on. “You should be fucking furious. What I did— I can’t believe I put you through that.” His eyes are starting to look glazed, and Derek feels his own tears starting to burn once more. “If it had been you who’d had an accident…” He swallows, shaking his head weakly. “I don’t know what I’d do with myself.”

His voice sounds thick, and Derek can’t stop the single tear running down his face.

“Not your fault,” he says, trying to sound as put together as Laura had before.

“But I promised you I wouldn’t get hurt,” Stiles insists. “I know this is what you— I promised I wouldn’t. And now I did anyway. How can you not be mad at me right now? I broke that promise. I— I broke everything.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, squeezing his hand. “The only thing you’ve broken is your ribs.”

Stiles stares at him, as if he’s looking for doubt in his face, but Derek won’t let him find any. He takes a deep breath, lifting his other hand up to cup Stiles’ cheek. Stiles lets him, but the pained look on his face doesn’t go away. Derek desperately wants it to.

“I was worried out of my mind,” he whispers, “but you’re an idiot for thinking I could be upset with you right now.”

A sob escapes Stiles, probably against his will, but Derek doesn’t care. He wants to wrap his arms all around Stiles and hold him tight but he  _can’t_. Instead he leans down, mindful of where he’s putting his weight, and kisses Stiles’ forehead. He gets a shaky breath in response.

“Love you,” he murmurs against Stiles’ warm skin, and nearly breaks his heart with relief that he’s able to tell Stiles this one more time. “I love you so much.”

Or two.

Stiles makes a broken sound and then there’s a familiar hand touching the back of his head, too weak to do anything but keep him where he is by the weight of it, but it’s enough.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispers, tilting his head back to bump his nose on Derek’s. “I love you, I’m so sorry.”

Derek sighs heavily, not sure what to do with himself. The blood on Stiles’ broken lip is dried but still tastes like copper when he places a peck on his lips. Stiles hums, which doesn’t sounds like he’s in pain but Derek is still careful when doing the same to his bruised cheek.

They stay like that for what feels like forever, exchanging small touches and gentle kisses while breathing confessions into each other’s ears, until Stiles groans and Derek immediately pauses.

“You okay?”

“My whole body hurts,” Stiles sighs. “I think I’ll take those drugs now.”

Derek snorts at that, tracing Stiles’ knuckles with his bottom lip before calling for the nurse.

 

 

It takes three months before Stiles gets back up on a bike.

At first, Derek thinks it’s simply because he isn’t  _allowed_  to, because his bones are still healing and all he can really do is sit in the garage to keep Derek company while he’s working on Stiles’ bike. It wasn’t beyond saving after the crash, and Derek can’t say if he’s relieved or disappointed. Deep down, he knows Stiles would get a new one either way, with or without his help, and at least this one has more meaning behind it.

But even after the bike and the ribs have been declared fixed, Stiles doesn’t ride it. He still asks Laura to drive him to school like she’s done while his ribs were healing, even says no when Isaac or Ethan offers to drive him. In the beginning, he had a reasonable excuse—because motorcycles are worse to your ribs than cars are—but after nearly three months there’s no reason he should stay away from bikes.

That’s when Derek realizes that it’s not just the ribs that need healing; Stiles’ psyche does too.

He remembers Laura once telling him about how people who fell off a horse should get back up in the saddle at once, just so they wouldn’t be too scared of the experience. Maybe it’s not too different with Stiles, only it’s been months and he refuses to act as if something is wrong.

Which is why Derek tells Laura one afternoon just as she’s off to pick up Stiles that he’ll do it. She looks at him like she wants to argue, like she knows why Stiles keeps persisting he still needs to be careful, too. And honestly? Derek wouldn’t be surprised if she does. He just wishes they’d talked about it earlier.

“Careful,” is all she says when returning to the front desk, shooing Isaac out of the way.

Derek brings Stiles’ new helmet on the Harley, because he knows it doesn’t follow Stiles everywhere like the old one did. He arrives at the school early, not wanting to miss him, and remains seated on the bike in the parking lot for ten minutes before students start streaming out of the building.

Stiles must be looking for Laura’s van because he doesn’t spot Derek in quite a while. Once he does, however, he freezes halfway down the stairs. The Asian girl—Kira, Derek recalls—stops and turns to him, probably wondering what’s wrong. Stiles manages to shake it off, saying something Derek can’t hear before he’s moving down the steps again, heading for Derek.

“What are you doing?” He asks once he’s close enough for Derek to hear.

“Picking you up from school,” Derek replies casually, holding out the helmet towards him.

“I thought Laura would,” Stiles says quietly, standing close enough to take his helmet from Derek’s offered hand now, but doesn’t.

“Not today,” Derek says calmly, despite wanting to say  _not anymore_.

“Derek—” Stiles begins, but is cut off.

“Stiles,” Derek says softly. “I know what’s going on. I know you’re scared to get back up on the horse, and I don’t blame you. I’m not disappointed if you never wanna drive a bike on your own ever again, either.” He scoffs, trying to make it a joke, and Stiles purses his lips as if keeping himself from smiling. “But I don’t want you to be scared of them.” He lifts his hand still holding the helmet. “So let’s go home.”

For a moment Stiles doesn’t say anything, and Derek thinks he might’ve pushed too hard, but then he lets out a heavy sigh and nods before accepting the helmet. He still looks unsettled, but determined, and Derek thinks that’s good enough. He kicks the engine back to like and patiently waits for Stiles to climb back on. It’s been a long time since he rode back on Derek’s bike rather than his own, and Derek can’t help but feel ridiculously nostalgic.

He’s missed it; missed having Stiles pressed along his back and hands on his hips.

“Ready?” He asks, glancing back over his shoulder.

Stiles nods, pulling the lid down to shield his eyes from the wind and wrapping his arms around Derek’s middle in a tight grip.

“Ready,” he confirms.

Derek flicks his wrist and drives out of the parking lot, feeling Stiles getting tense as they pick up speed.

He doesn’t drive exaggeratingly slow, because unlike Ethan and Stiles he’s perfectly fine with not speeding away like a lunatic. Stiles knows this, too, and it’s like he starts to remember as they go. Derek can tell by how his hold on Derek goes from tight to loose, like he slowly starts to relax back on the bike, and it makes Derek smile into his helmet. He even takes a detour to their apartment, just to keep this moment going for a little longer, and Stiles doesn’t object.

When they finally roll into their own garage at home, and Derek parks next to Stiles’ own Harley, there’s not a single trace of tension left in Stiles’ body. He climbs off before Derek has shut off the engine, and has taken his helmet off before Derek even lands on his feet.

There’s a small smile playing at Stiles’ lips, and Derek’s heart jolts in joy. Not that Stiles has been depressed for the last couple months since the accident, but somehow, this feels more genuine. Like Stiles is whole again, and Derek smiles warmly in return once he’s rid of his own helmet.

“Thank you,” Stiles says.

Derek sighs as he steps forward, cupping Stiles’ cheek. His face is clean and free from scratches, his eyes open and beautiful. The kiss doesn’t taste of blood when he leans in to press their mouths together. He tastes of sugar, probably from the soft drink he drank during lunch.

“Love you,” he rumbles deeply.

 


	6. mike bike

 

 

Derek has had the sun in his eyes for hours, lying sprawled out on his stomach in the center of the big bed, swaying right on the edge of awake and asleep. It’s the sound of light feet padding across the floor that finally drifts him back to the surface of consciousness, giving him a few seconds to remember what year it is before the mattress dips down by his ankles.

“Daddy,” comes a smooth voice, which manages to reach him despite the barrier of sleep. Derek likes to think it’d reach him through anything.

“Mmh,” is his response, forcing half an eye open.

He shifts with a heavy sigh, watching his son crawl up the bed towards him. Once he’s at eye-level with Derek, he simply flops down on his side, resting his little head on the big pillow. What little hair he’s got is in total disarray, standing out in all directions, and Derek lazily reaches out to smooth it out the best he can.

“Are you awake?”

“Not really,” Derek admits, smiling softly. “But almost.”

The boy tilts his head further into the pillow, studying his daddy’s face that’s only inches away with big eyes. They’re brown, sometimes too dark to make out the irises, but with the beam of sunlight shining down on them through the bedroom window, they look almost amber.

“I wanna ride my bike,” he says, voice muffled with one cheek pressed against the pillow.

Derek hums again, trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes. He yawns and stretches, feeling like a damn cat as he curls up on his side. The comforter is in a bundle by the foot of the bed, and the only part of Derek that’s still seeking warmth beneath it are his bare feet.

“Hey, Mike,” he murmurs as his son crawls closer to him again, eager to get rid of the distance Derek put between them when rolling onto his side. “Did you dress all by yourself today?”

“No,” the boy says, two small hands landing on Derek’s bicep for support. He sinks down in a sitting position, and his dad automatically wraps one arm around him. “Papa helped me.”

“Where’s papa now?” Derek asks drowsily.

Mike shrugs with his whole body.

“I don’t remember,” he says regretfully. “He took motorbike.”

“That’s okay,” Derek assures him with a smile. “I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

“Daddy, can I ride my bike?” Mike asks him, eyes pleading.

“Of course you can ride your bike,” Derek nods, exhaling one last time before forcing himself to get out of bed. Mike jumps to his feet, bouncing on the mattress. “Come on.”

Mike is a blur when running past him in the doorway, and Derek huffs at his son’s excitement. He sure as hell didn’t get that from  _him_.

It’s an open house, so Derek can already tell as he pads down the stairs that it’s too hot outside to bother getting dressed. Besides, it’s Sunday. He could stay in PJs all day if he wanted too. So could Mike, though apparently Stiles hadn’t agreed.

He doesn’t glance at the clock on the wall as they pass the kitchen, but when they get outside the sun is high on the sky, so Derek suspects it must be somewhere close to noon. A few cars drive by on the highway across the field, but even on rush hour they don’t get much traffic out here. It’s a great contrast from New York.

Moving out of the city had been Stiles idea, but Derek has no regrets. He’d grown accustomed to the life as a city boy, and owning his own garage had been a dream, but it was no secret that he’s always preferred the outdoors; that an open road surrounded by wild landscape spoke to him like stunning skyscrapers never would.

Besides: neither of them wanted their kid to grow up in the city.

Laura still owns the shop, and Isaac has taken on the role as mechanic the days Derek isn’t working. He still comes in three times a week, because he loves his job too much to let it go completely. The two remaining workdays he spends at home attending tea parties or being a horse or whatever it is his son wants him to do. Stiles works from his office at home, but as charming at Mike is it can be difficult for his papa to get much work done, which is why Derek first offered to take Mike off his hands twice a week. This way, they’re still able to have their meals at home together for most days of the week.

“Daddy, help,” Mike asks politely, lifting his chin up for his dad to buckle the strap to his helmet. Crouching down, Derek makes quick work of it. “Thanks.”

The bike is leaning against the wall, and Derek watches the little boy run over to retrieve it with a fond smile. It’s a poor excuse for a bicycle—it doesn’t even have treadles—but considering Mike can’t ride a bike yet, it’s probably for the best. Laura and Erica had found it in some shopping mall in New York, before Mike could even  _walk_ , and bought it for his first birthday. The boy had been absolutely delighted, despite not being stable to actually use it until first recently.

No one can argue that it’s the perfect toy for the son of two bikers.

Using his feet on the front yard’s stone floor to push forward, it becomes a real struggle when he wants to hold his daddy’s hand. Derek tries to explain to him how he can’t keep his balance on the bike and hold his hand at the same time, but Mike is stubborn.

Carefully, they move across the stone tiles, their bare feet leaving prints in the thin layer of sand. The skin on Derek’s back and neck burns hot under the gassing sun, but the breeze is cool and makes it comfortable. He takes a new step about every ten seconds—provided Mike hasn’t stopped and needs to readjust his grip around Derek’s fingers—but he patiently waits, giving his son all the time he needs.

When the familiar sound of Stiles’ motorcycle can be heard in the distance, Mike is the first one to lift his head. Derek probably would have heard it earlier if he hadn’t been more focused on the boy completing his task than Mike himself was.

“Papa!” He exclaims, looking up to Derek for confirmation.

Derek nods, smiling broadly as his heart speeds up a little at his own happiness.

Mike hurries to scramble off his bike, making grabby hands for his daddy to pick him up. Derek does so gladly, scooping him up on one arm while bracing the little bicycle’s fall with his foot. While not scared of them, the kid respects motorcycles enough to not wanting to be at ground level whenever their engines are on. He steadies himself with both hands on Derek’s chest, his eyes on the horizon as he waits for Stiles to appear.

The sight of Stiles rolling in on his Harley is one Derek has seen many times before, but one he doubts he’ll ever get tired of. He’s got his full leather gear on—boots, trousers, jacket and gloves—which means he most definitely took a detour along the stretch of road to the west. It’s the perfect route for a race, but Derek knows Stiles wouldn’t do anything reckless like that. Not again. There is however no cure to his need for speed.

Stiles raises his hand and waves at them, coming to a stop on the dusty driveway and turns the engine off as soon as he can. Mike leans forward in Derek’s arms, urging him to go over there once the bike goes quiet. Derek huffs, but obliges. Stiles remains standing over the bike as he removes his helmet, giving them a blinding smile as they approach which makes Derek’s heart  _ache_  with love and longing.

“Papa!” Mike squeaks happily, hands drumming on Derek’s arm holding him.

“Baby monkey!” Stiles calls out in return, his voice high-pitch and silly as it usually is when talking to his son.

The boy is reaching for him with both hands, and Derek steps up close enough for him to lean in and wrap both arms around Stiles’ neck in a tight hug, grasping the collar of the leather jacket in his small hands. Stiles chuckles and pats him affectionately on his back, almost starting to sway with Derek still supporting Mike’s weight on his arm. He lets go eventually, and gives Stiles a quick kiss before settling back against his daddy’s chest.

Derek notices Stiles’ gaze sweeping over his naked torso before their eyes lock, and no matter how far they are from the young men who’d danced and grinded on a beach party the third night after they met, he still feels a rush of excitement at his husband’s heated gaze.

“You wanna kiss papa hello, too?” He asks, smiling softly.

Humming, Derek leans in to capture Stiles’ lips in a hard kiss—one that he’s been wanting to give him since he first noticed he was alone in bed. Stiles smells of leather and tastes of toothpaste, which is something Derek most certainly doesn’t, but Stiles doesn’t seem to care. He sighs into it, pressing his own mouth against Derek’s for just a moment too long.

“Where was you?” Mike asks as soon as they pull apart, oblivious.

“I went to get some milk, because it’s pancake Sunday and we didn’t have any,” Stiles answers him, playfully threatening to tickle him. “I told you that, Michael.”

“I don’t remember,” Mike says, laughing madly even before being actually tickled.

“You guys already had breakfast, then?” Stiles asks, retreating his hand.

“No,” Mike replies, catching his breath. “Daddy was sleepin’.”

Stiles cocks an eyebrow at him.

“It’s Sunday,” Derek defends himself. “I’m allowed to sleep in.”

Stiles laughs, eyes sparkling, and it’s the most beautiful thing Derek has seen today—right next to his son trying to get him out of bed.

“Alright,” he sighs once he’s done laughing, “let’s go have breakfast all of us together, hm?”

“Mike-bike!” Their son exclaims, hands reaching out towards the Harley.

Derek huffs, raising his eyebrows at Stiles in question. Stiles shrugs, smiling.

“Okay, baby,” he says, taking Mike from Derek’s offering arms. “Come here.”

He sits Mike down in front of him on the seat, one arm protectively circling around his middle like a seat belt. Derek takes a step back, crossing his arms over his bare chest and watches his husband and son with a fond smile. Mike tries to reach for one of the handles, but his arms aren’t long enough. That doesn’t stop him from still pretending he’s driving, making childish engine noises with his mouth. Stiles asks him if he wants to turn the engine back on, but Mike immediately say’s no.

“I’ll be run over,” he explains.

“You won’t be run over,” Stiles assures him seriously, fighting back a laugh that Derek can see is threatening to spill out. “But we don’t have to.”

After a few minutes Mike seems satisfied, and makes grabby hands at Derek to pick him back up. While Derek does, Stiles slides off the bike and goes to collect the cartoon of milk from his saddle bag. He rounds the bike again, gesturing for Derek to put Mike down.

“You think you can take this to the kitchen without dropping it? Daddy will come inside in a minute and make pancakes. Alright, Scofield?”

The boy nods eagerly, but Derek shakes his head as he puts Mike back on the ground.

“You’re confusing him,” he complains. “You and your names.”

Stiles smiles proudly at him. There was a time when even the smallest mention or hint of Yoda made him close down, but thankfully it passed. Derek never blamed him—he misses the dog, too, and he was every bit of their baby as Mike is. In time Stiles stopped mourning ever time he was reminded of Yoda’s passing, and instead smiled at the good memories. The husky had lived a long and good life, and Stiles had said it himself that there isn’t a single thing he would’ve wished differently.

“He’s clever,” he insists, crouching down to give Mike the package of milk.

“Careful, Mike,” Derek urges when the boy heads back to the house.

They both turn to watch him walk as fast as he can with the milk clutched to his chest, the helmet bouncing on his head. Derek almost expects him to fall over, not trusting his balance, but he makes it safely to the door. He disappears into the shadowed house, and Derek absently thinks that they’ll need to sweep the floor after dragging in sand with their bare feet.

“Hey.”

Derek turns back to Stiles who walks straight up into his space, one gloved hand landing on his bare hip. It makes him smirk devilishly, and when looking back up into Stiles’ face he finds the same glint of mischief in his eyes.

Stiles kisses him again, this time not suitable for their kid to watch. He plunges his tongue inside Derek’s mouth, moaning quietly as Derek urgently kisses him back. He grabs at Stiles’ leather jacket, suddenly frustrated by all the layers of clothing preventing him from touching his husband’s naked skin.

Once the kiss ends, they remain close with their foreheads touching.

“We’re getting too old for this,” Derek murmurs, but sighs happily.

“Nonsense,” Stiles protests. “We’re not old.”

“I remember you calling me ancient several years ago,” Derek reminds him.

“It was 2013 and you didn’t have a Facebook!”

Derek huffs, shaking his head and closes his eyes for a moment. He can still feel the sun on his back, can still hear the cars driving by on the highway, and it’s perfect.

“I love you,” he blurts suddenly. “I love you both. He’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

Stiles hums quietly, one hand coming up to rest of the back of Derek’s head.

“I know,” he says softly. “You too. Love you, Der.”

A laugh slips out of Derek, happiness consuming him in the best possible way. He playfully knocks their heads together, watching a grin spread across Stiles lips before he kisses them again.

“Daddy! Papa!” Mike calls from inside the house. “I dropped it!”

“Shit,” Stiles scoffs against Derek’s lips.

 


End file.
